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Toby Savoy: Background
It's night, though under the bright lights of the city it could be noon. The only difference between night and noon on the strip are the shadows. At night, they stand out in stark relief, clear lines between the light and the dark, during the day, it's harder to tell where the shadows are. I'm standing in the middle of the street, around me car horns are blaring. They started started almost as soon as the squeal of the tires stopped. It doesn't matter what caused traffic to stop, in this city everyone knows the fastest way to get traffic to clear is honk, scream and curse. I take a step backwards and a piece of my cheap canvas sneaker falls away, bits of glass bite into the underside of my foot. I get the impression that I'm falling into a sea of stars, but it's just more of the glass reflecting the city light back at me. I put my hands down to catch myself and more glass bites into my hands bloodying them. The pain forces me to my senses. In front of me the remains of a large sedan, around me debris from the sedan, and on me tattered clothing and blood. I must be in shock. Traffic begins moving around the wreckage of the car. Drivers eager to be away from the crash scene lest they get caught up in the quagmire that is the legal system. Sirens are faint in the distance. An SUV passes inches from my face inspiring me to risk moving to the curb. It's only a few yards. I'm sitting on the sidewalk leaning against a mailbox. I don't feel to bad. My hands and foot hurt from the glass, but otherwise I feel fine. Maybe the sedan wasn't what hit me, maybe I only got clipped by whatever hit the sedan. A hit and run. No wonder everyone is scattering and ignoring me. The sirens are getting closer. I check myself again running the backs of my hands down my legs, knuckling my chest, but there doesn't appear to be any more damage. As I push aside the shreds of my jacket to inspect my chest a puff of white powder falls onto my hand. Still reeling from the near miss I turn over my hand and the powder spills over the cuts. My hand goes numb and my heart begins to race, but whether it is from the drug or fear I couldn't say. The sirens are nearly here and I'm wearing enough powder for a life sentence from the police or a death sentence from Angelo. I'm standing in a heartbeat, they're easy to count pounding like drums in my ears, another heartbeat and I'm limping down the street. Angelo pays well, but the reason he pays well is because he puts a value on everything. He puts a value on loyalty, on intelligence, on strength, on charm and I had all those. It's why I did these jobs, he was going to make me one of his men, once I got old enough. I was going to be a made man, I was going to have a future, I was going to live...now I am going to die. Angelo puts a value on everything. He put a value on my life, he told me how much it was, and it wasn't much, but that was alright, I was going to become valuable to him. He put a value on that packet of powder too...it was a lot more than the value he put on me. Angelo doesn't like people being in debt to him. He says once someone owes more than their worth, they're never going to get out of debt, just deeper, so you're better off cutting your losses. I'm so far in debt to Angelo right now I doubt he'd waste the money on a bullet, probably just have the boys use a bat, like they did on... No, shake it off, take another step, the corner isn't far, get around the corner, get somewhere safe, get out of town, get...! The hand that reached out of the shadow was massive, seems Angelo was watching, and couldn't wait to cut his losses. I struggled, I think, but by then the powder was getting too me. I swear that the man who pulled me into the shadow was wearing a mask, like a giant dog, a smiling dog...how does a dog smile? I don't think the man who took me works for Angelo, for one thing, I'm alive. For another he's asking questions. He might be a fed but he looks wrong for it. He wanted to know how old I was, and what I was doing running powder at 15, and who my parents were, and where they were, and seemed almost relieved when I said I didn't know. I'd had case workers nod like they expected it, I'd seen pity in their eyes, I'd seen resignation, but never relief when I said that. I warned him that I worked for Angelo, and that he should let me go, but he didn't seem to care. I figured him for an out of towner, because no-one shrugs off Angelo's name. When I tried to threaten him with it again he called Angelo “a sycophant of a leech” and spat on the floor, pronouncing him “worm tainted.” This made me furious, though in a confused sort of way. I always had Angelo's back, I'd broken one kids arm for talking smack about him, but now, for some reason, I was almost as angry at Angelo as I was at the man calling him a worm. The man's smile while he looked at me reminded me of the smile on the face of the dog mask he was wearing when he nabbed me. It's been a week, I think, since the hit and run destroyed my life. The man only unties me long enough to do my business, and he watches me even then. He says we're leaving tonight to meet some people, they're the people he runs with. I think he must belong to a gang that's trying to move in on Angelo's family territory. From the way he's talking, I might have a chance, if I impress these people I might get some protection from Angelo. Trouble is, they sound like they might be some sort of religious nuts, he's called me “lost” a few times and keeps mentioning rites.